DEAR MIKE TYSON

  

Dear Mike Tyson,

Today, I watched an interview where a young journalist asked you about your legacy. Your response took most by surprise, you saying you had no legacy. I’d like to tell you why you are wrong. 

History will remember the very best and the very worse of who you are. But you have left your legacy in every moment that has been your life. You have been an inspiration to hundreds of little boys who were told they would never see their dreams come true. They watched you manifest your dreams through fierce determination and hard work. You were a life lesson personified. Many of us learned from you that mistakes could be made and one could come back from them. You showed millions that they do not have to be their circumstances, or their past, and could shape a future of their own making. You did that, with each punch, each knock out, each uphill battle where the masses, and the bookies, were betting against you.

I discovered my love for boxing watching you fight. My late father was a huge fan! He followed your career from Trevor Berbick to Kevin McBride and Roy Jones, Jr. My father loved the sport! He’d been a sparring partner for the heavy-weight champ, Floyd Patterson’s team. His dreams of a professional career ended with marriage and children. We would watch you and he always said that you would forever be remembered as one of the best. What an honor to know that you have not only left your signature on history, but also on the lives of so many who believed in you because you believed in yourself. That you have left so much of yourself for the rest of us to ponder and reflect on as we battle our own fights and go against the demons that sometimes seek to destroy us. 

Mike, you are the epitome of what legacy should be. You are honored and cherished. You are the embodiment of our ancestors who endured enslavement and Jim Crow and who won battle after battle despite all the odds against them. You are the blueprint for our future progeny. You’ve demonstrated that you can take a loss and still stand tall. You’ve shown us that defeat is only a building block to make us bigger, better, and badder! You are a black man, in a white world, who refused to be beaten down by those who stood against you. You made us believe. You showed us courage. 

With your answer, to that little girl, you didn’t give yourself the credit that you deserve, the credit that you have rightfully earned. You are a legend who will forever be cherished. And loved. You are more than dust and legacy has nothing to do with ego. Death will not erase what you’ve accomplished or the path you took through life with all its turns and roadblocks. Like it or not, you are the legacy of everything that can be accomplished. You are the legacy of hope. Be proud of that. Because we are!

DRIBBLE

I haven’t been able to complete a single thought in weeks. There’s been so much running through my head that it’s been next to impossible to sort through it. I’ll simply say the devil continues to stay busy. But you know how I do. The bits and pieces become dribble and dribble eventually becomes a post. So here goes. 

1. If you are now out here doing interviews and posting about Sean “P-Diddy” Combs and what you saw or what you knew, then you deserve to be in the same cell with him. If you were witness to his alleged depravity and you did absolutely nothing to protect or help his victims when it was happening, then you, too, should rot in hell. You giving up information now, doesn’t make you a hero. It only proves how despicable you truly are.
2. Historically, women have been saving the world since the beginning of time. There are those who don’t know that because the men who mucked things up have taken extreme measures to keep that history from the world. It makes them look bad and they can’t have that. Men muck things up and women have to step in to save the day. But we’re tired. There’s never any appreciation for our efforts. And many don’t really deserve us. But we never stop thinking about the children, and their future and what will happen to them if we don’t step in to clean up the mess. So, we stay in the fray, and we fight for what’s right. Then we watch as some pale-faced, limp-dick, lily-livered man erases our efforts from the history books. But that too, shall soon change. Because we are truly fed up with limp-dick men with no balls and no backbone. 
3. If you support and defend a man with no moral fiber. A man who has continually proven himself to be a habitual liar. A man who lacks character and compassion; then don’t be surprised when the rest of us look at you cross-eyed and question your own moral integrity. If you refuse to condemn the bad behavior then we refuse to give you a pass. So, miss me with your platitudes and excuses. You are no better than he is. In fact, you are probably worse.
4.  I still have no tolerance for cold weather. Heat is bliss. Cold is simply cruel. 
5. Men make war a pissing contest. It's dick waving to see whose is bigger. Every thing is tit for tat. They never consider the consequences or care who will suffer most. Women and children are expendable, even a liability if they get in the way. They are the epitome of Little Dick Syndrome, needing to prove their worth because they are lacking in all other aspects of their small worlds. But it's war. With big, deadly toys and even deadlier consequences. Innocent people die for no reason other than ego and revenge. Men waging war need to be bitch slapped.
6. Life has a funny way of interfering with your plans. It slides itself into your calendar and wreaks havoc on otherwise stable schedules. Life has a mind of its own and wields control when we least expect. It fathoms itself to be quite the comedian. But there’s no humor in its antics. Life is unstable and in need of therapy.

GOOD PEOPLE

I love to see young people doing well. This past weekend Big Daddy and I met a young man who is making a name for himself in the real estate game.  He is a licensed broker and I instantly fell head over heels. He was respectful, engaging, knowledgeable and from start to finish he made his granny, and this granny, proud. 

His name is Tye Williams and Tye was hosting an Open House. The upscale home was in a neighborhood that has never been known for being upscale, but gentrification is quickly changing the landscape. We talked everything from home design to politics and back. He had strong opinions and a solid moral character and I would not hesitate to recommend him to anyone in the market for a home.

Tye made such an impression that I knew I would write a blog about him before I got out the door. That’s saying a lot since I haven’t blogged in months. Well, actually a whole year! Life has had me in a head lock since my father died and Mom became my responsibility. But being able to come up for air and write about someone that moved my spirit has been invigorating. 

Tye is good people and it’s not often you run into someone so genuine, with such an honest, open spirit. He’s good people and good people are far and few these days. I see a bright future ahead for him. His will be a legacy of his own making and he’s already forged a foundation that exemplifies his upbringing, his talent, and his love for self, life, and family.

Are you thinking about purchasing a new home? Have a house you need to sell? Then Tye Williams is the agent for you. Try Tye for your home needs and BUY!!

 

Tye Williams

Broker

919-949-9359

tye.williams@nestrealty.com

https://nestrealty.com/tyewilliams

WHEN SHE'S DEAD...

Every time she says I can do something when she’s dead, I am tempted to ask if she can die sooner than later because the list of what I cannot do now is growing by leaps and bounds.

You can take that painting down when I die. Until then, leave it. When I die you can move those chairs, until then, let them stay. You can clear away that stuff when I’m dead. Just leave it for now. I don't want to take that trip but you can go when I'm dead. Don’t move these things here. You can toss them all into the trash when I’m gone.

God understands so I don’t feel but so bad for the thoughts that sometimes run through my head. I’m especially mindful though not to say them out loud. But I cannot make her understand that we are still here, and our choices should not be dependent on what a dead man once wanted for himself. But celebrating the here and now is suddenly foreign to her.

When my father died, she too stopped living. It has taken the patience of Job to keep her pushing forward with both feet. Most times, I have had to drag her along kicking and screaming. Change terrifies her and she sees death as the only answer to her fears. She’d been married to him longer than I’ve been alive, and his world was all she’d ever known. For sixty-plus years her entire existence had revolved around him, and now she feels lost with him not here. That makes me so sad.

I had hoped she would want more in however long she has left. That she would finally step out of the shadows and shine. She had once been a vibrant personality. She could slay dragons, run marathons, and take the world by storm with a simple dance step or two. That mother had no fear of anything. That mother lived every day for her next adventure. That mother held tightly to family and friends. People meant more to her than things. We lost my mother when my father died. That woman, is the one I miss even more than not having my father here. 

PATIENCE...

My beloved father was recently referred to hospice. So we brought him home to die. No one prepares you for the waiting. They generalize the expectations because everyone’s experience in hospice is different. But no one tells you that waking every morning, wondering if today will be your loved one’s last day, is emotionally and physically debilitating. They don't tell you that sleep is difficult because you're afraid to not be there when they need you.

Patience has never been one of my virtues. Rushing through those things I can control is my norm. But no one wants to rush death. And waiting for it, knowing it will inevitably invade your happy place but not knowing exactly when, is brutal. Since the decision was made, each day has gotten harder. Daddy’s needs change with each passing hour. The caregiver responsibilities must sometimes change on a dime. And patience is often the divide between success and failure when you must wait, uncertain what will come, and what you must rise up to meet.

His hospice care team have been phenomenal. Their support and guidance have allowed us the grace to do this. Friends have circled around, support unexpected and appreciated. Family have stood strong, despite the inevitable drama that comes with fear and sadness and the lack of patience for bullshit usually ignored. Gratefully, petty disputes over rice and plastic cups only last as long as the timer for his next dose of pain meds to be dispensed, or the tears that come with the memories.

I cherish the memories. Not just those well in the past, but those made as family and friends have said their goodbyes. Memories wrapped in laughter that rattles the walls of our home, or watered by the mist of ugly tears. Losing myself in the memories has kept me standing. They have helped me with the waiting. I’m learning the fine art of patience. I just hate how the lesson is being taught.

THE TRUTH...

The truth never had a chance here.

Let me say that again.

The truth never had a chance here.

That statement, made by attorney Ralph E. Fernandez, about the death of 40-year-old Tamla Horsford, a black Forsyth County woman and mother of six who died during a largely all-white, adult slumber party in 2018, has always felt like a sliver of glass shoved into my heart.

The case surrounding Horsford’s death was compromised by conflicting witness statements, a tampered crime scene, mishandled evidence and “unheard of” absence of autopsy photos.  The medical examiner’s report stated Horsford had severe injuries to her head, neck, and torso. There were cuts to her face, wrist, hand, and lower legs. Horsford also had a “laceration to the right ventricle” of her heart.

Investigators claim Horsford fell about fourteen feet from the back porch of the home and died on impact. Her death was classified as an accident. Others who reviewed the case state her injuries were “consistent” with being in a physical struggle. Horsford’s case was closed, no charges were ever filed, and no one has ever been held accountable for her death.

The truth never had a chance here.

The parents of 8-year-old Jayceon Charles have been seeking justice for their young son since October 2022. Jayceon was visiting the home of a neighborhood friend with plans to go to an amusement park the following day. The friend’s family reportedly were roasting hot dogs when a fire broke out and little Jayceon was burned over 80% of his body. Instead of calling emergency services, the family, who are white, wrapped Jayceon in Vaseline and saran wrap. Not only did the family NOT call 911, they never contacted Jayceon’s parents. Little Jayceon managed to place a call to his mother, screaming into the phone for help. As a result of his injuries, Jayceon has since been on a ventilator, suffered from kidney failure, brain damage, had multiple surgeries and has coded twice. The Warren, Arkansas police have declined to investigate.

The truth never had a chance here.

Most recently, 25-year-old Shanquella Robinson of Charlotte, NC traveled to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico with friends to celebrate her bestie’s birthday. She was later found unconscious in her room and pronounced dead. Those friends claimed she died of alcohol poisoning. Days later a video clip surfaced showing those same friends beating Shanquella senseless and filming the assault just hours before her death. The autopsy report showed that Shanquella died from a severe spinal cord injury and broken neck. At this time, none of the friends who she went on the trip with are facing charges. And not one has been forthcoming or honest about what happened.

The truth doesn’t have a chance here. Or so some would want us to believe.

These are not stories that make national headlines. Missing white women syndrome is in full effect when it comes to the media attention on a murdered black mother, an 8-year-old black child viciously assaulted, and a beautiful black girl with ugly friends who showed themselves to be evil enemies. Were these stories to receive the same media attention as that of Gabby Petito, an American woman murdered by her boyfriend, maybe justice would be served. Maybe there would be earnest investigations into their cases and maybe with enough eyes questioning the facts, the truth would have more than a chance.

How did we get to this place? Where law enforcement will circumvent the truth to save face, protect the guilty, or simply show their disdain and lack of concern and compassion. When did social media clout become more important than reverence for human life? What has happened to our humanity?

These three cases, and others, haunt me. I've lost sleep pondering what I could possibly do to help. I don't know any of the families but I wish I could wrap them in a hug and let them know I care. I want to be there for them and I am not the only one. Their pain is my pain. It is our pain. Their frustration is our frustration. But for the grace of God, it could be me, or my child, or my daughter. Our beautiful black souls deserve so much more than being so easily dismissed.

DRIBBLINGS...

I’ve decided that I need to revive my random thoughts segment. There’s so much going on and sometimes just a random thought about a subject is fitting. Y’all might remember how this works. Every so often a thought will cross my mind but never quite make it into a full-blown post. I call them DRIBBLINGS, just haphazard, trivial stuff that passes through my thoughts. And so, I DRIBBLE!

A father in Louisville boarded a public-school bus to verbally assault a child. (Video HERE.) He says it was out of character for him, but that his daughter has been bullied and because the school has taken no action, he’d been pushed to his limits when allegedly his daughter was smacked by another little girl. NO! In fact, HELL NO! I’m not buying that bullshit. He showed his true colors. No grown ass man would even consider calling a child a bitch and think that’s okay. No father of a daughter would be okay doing this unless he has absolutely no respect for women in general. He called that little girl out of her name with his whole chest, and I shudder to think what he would have done had the bus driver not been holding him back. The video showed his daughter trying to climb over the seat to continue to escalate the problem. Personally, I didn’t get victim vibes, unless she got a shot of courage because daddy was there. Clearly though, he’s not the role model any little girl needs to fully understand her self-worth as she journeys to womanhood. Either way, he was wrong, and no one should be okay with his behavior.

 

Words are my superpower. Point of view is my kryptonite.

 

At the beginning of his quest for the presidency, Donald Trump stated he could walk down 5^th Avenue and shoot someone, and no one would care. A lot has happened since then that would seem to validate that statement. I can’t help but wonder what, if anything, would make the GOP pull their support of this one man and refocus on the needs of their constituents and the American people? Or are they, as an entire entity of political power determined to go down in flames if he leads them straight to hell?

 

We’ve blamed Covid. We’ve blamed presidents and political parties. We’ve blamed supply demands. We’ve pointed fingers at other countries and a war we’re financing but not supporting. Every ill from rising gas prices to the economic crisis across the nation has been blamed on something. At what point do we place the blame on the greed and selfishness of people who have no compassion for their fellow man? When do we call out blatantly bad behavior and actions meant to defraud most and prosper only a few? Where shelves are stocked, why haven’t prices begun to drop? Because someone is profiting personally, and they don’t give a rat’s ass about the rest of us. So when will we lay the blame there?

 

My cognitive empathy has become a liability. I cry at commercials. Life can become overwhelming too quickly. My emotional empathy is on overload, fueling somatic empathy that has my entire body reeling. To shut it down, I need to shut it off. If I shut off my emotions, I can’t write. And I need to write. I feel like I’m caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

 

Old people are determined to take their dirt to their graves. The deeds done in their youth could potentially come back to haunt generations that follow behind them. But I get it. I’ve done some things I pray daily will never see the light of day. And I hope if it ever does, I’m long gone, and my descendants can forgive me. There’s a story here. Maybe, one day, I’ll let myself write it. Then again, maybe I already have?